Classic Poem

Sweet Lydia take this maske, and shroud
Thy face within the silken cloud,
And veile those powerfull Skies:
For he whose gazing dares so high Aspire,
Makes burning glasses of his eyes,
And sets his heart on fire.

Vaile, Lydia vaile, for unto mee
There is no basiliske but thee.
Thy very lookes doe kill:
Yet in those lookes so fixt is my delight,
Poore soule (alas) I languish still
In absence of thy sight.

Close up those eyes, or we shall finde
Too great a lustre strike us blinde:
Or if a Ray so good
Ought to be seene, let it but then appeare
When Eagles doe produce their brood,
To try their young ones there.

Or if thou would'st have me to know
How great a brightnesse thou canst shew;
When they have lost the Sun;
Then doe thou rise, and give the world this theme,
Sol from th' Hesperides is run,
And back hath whipt his teame.

Yet through the Goat when he shall stray,
Thou through the Crab must take thy way;
For should you both shine bright
In the same Tropick , we poore moles should get
Not so much comfort by the light,
As torment by the heat.

Where's Lydia now? where shall I seeke
Her charming lip, her tempting cheeke
That my affections bow'd?
So dark a sable hath ecclipst my faire,
That I can gaze upon the cloud,
That durst not see the Star.

But yet me thinkes my thoughts begin
To say there lies a white within,
Though black her pride controule:
And what care I how black a face I see,
So there be whitenesse in the soule,
Still such an Ethiop be.